


on the brink of dawn (i wait)

by hotaruyy



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Identity, Introspection, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotaruyy/pseuds/hotaruyy
Summary: Anastasia stares at her reflection in the mirror, decked out in layers of georgette and silk that feel too soft and light on her body despite their gilded weight, and tries her best to fit in her too-tight skin.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	on the brink of dawn (i wait)

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve seen the 1997 animated film twice, years ago, and I’m obsessed with the soundtrack of the broadway musical, but I’ve never seen the musical itself. So I guess this is a remix of the reunion scene based on both the film and the soundtrack?
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

Anastasia stares at her reflection in the mirror, decked out in layers of georgette and silk that feel too soft and light on her body despite their gilded weight, and tries her best to fit in her too-tight skin. Her meticulously coiled hair sits rigidly atop her head, and the chignon prods at her nape. She swallows.

“You’ve got your memories back. You know who you are, now. And she’s your grandmother. It’ll go fine, she’ll know you,” Dmitry is saying, in perhaps what he thinks is a reassuring tone. He’s behind her, arms looped around her neck, adjusting her silver necklace. She can feel the heat rising from his body, warm on the bare skin above her bodice, her shoulders. His every word tickles the back of her neck.

With the key-shaped pendant nestled precisely between her collarbones, Dmitry smiles and withdraws. Instantly, the ever-present tangle of knots inside her chest tightens with a vengeance, creeping around her lungs and pressing against her breastbone. Anastasia wishes ‒ foolishly, just for a second ‒ to turn into him and shut her eyes, bury herself in the comfort of his arms.

“Look at you,” Dmitry breathes out. Anastasia’s eyes flick up to meet his in the mirror. Searching his face, she wonders what he sees.

The familiar lines around his eyes and mouth are brightly lit by the crystal chandelier hanging above them. She drinks in this moment, wanting desperately to take it and fold it carefully, smooth it down and put it in the deepest pocket of her oversized, coarse wool coat, stashed in a suitcase along with all the belongings she brought from Russia.

Her gloved hands brush down the front of her gown, opulent with embroidery that she can’t feel.

She takes a deep breath in. And out.

“Come on,” Dmitry tilts his head towards the door, a rogue grin breaking across his face, “Your Highness.”

* * *

The dowager empress is standing in the centre of a shifting crowd of glittering dresses and sharply pressed tuxedos during intermission, the line of her throat stretched long and elegant as she laughs. Her grandmother. All around the room are glossy marble surfaces and dark, weighted fabrics, swimming in the soaring light of the chandeliers, the tinkering notes of the piano drifting across the vast space and mingling with the heady smell of champagne.

This is where she belongs. She is the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, daughter of the last Tsar. Her grandmother, the dowager empress, is here. This is all she’s ever wanted. She’s home. Home with her family.

Beside her, Dmitry is a steady presence, his arm hooked around hers. His sleeve creases under her glove. Even under the tangy notes of his newly-purchased cologne, he smells familiar, oil and leather. St. Petersburg.

He leads them to deftly slip in between the crowd, offering a laugh here, a compliment there, until they are a scant few metres away from the dowager empress. Dmitry slips his arm from hers, settles his hand in the small of her back, and gives her a gentle nudge. “Go,” he whispers. She turns to look at him. There’s something to the slant of his smile, a tightness around his eyes that makes her hesitate.

She feels as if she’s teetering on a precipice, stranded without a way forward or back, and once again she wonders if it would have been easier if she never regained her memories.

Then the balance tips as Dmitry pushes harder, and Anastasia finds herself moving forward, one step after another until abruptly, she is in front of her grandmother.

The dowager empress’s gaze lands on her face, slides away, and suddenly darts back to look at her necklace. Her eyes widen, and she lifts her head to lock eyes with Anastasia.

“Who…?”

* * *

It’s done. Her grandmother believed her the moment Anastasia recounted memories that only the two of them shared, believed her even before she slipped the key into and unlocked the music box that the dowager empress keeps in her nightstand.

As the last notes from the music box trickle into the empty space of the room, a heavy silence drapes over them. Anastasia looks down at her hands, wrapped up daintily in white silk gloves. She finally gives in to the night-long, itching urge to take them off, placing them on the seat next to her.

“Anasta–”

“You didn’t come back for me,” Anastasia bites out.

It surprises herself. She’s not quite sure where this seething resentment comes from, why it’s rearing its head now, why its flaming heat is unpleasantly welcome. “You didn’t come back for me,” she repeats, quieter. The tightness in her chest is burning. It’s hard to breathe.

Teary and silent, the dowager empress puts her hand on Anastasia’s cheek. Anastasia shakes it away. It’s easier to be angry at her grandmother, easier to be angry at the men who found her and brought her here. Easier than being angry at herself, for all the years she lost. Both before, and after. If only she had never lost her memories, or never remembered them. If only she had ever looked at her reflection and known who she was. If only.

Her grandmother’s hands hover above hers, then draw away. “I’m sorry, Anastasia.” Her voice is hoarse, choking. “I’m so sorry.”

Anastasia holds still for a moment, trying furiously to ignore how the knots in her chest push up into her throat, her nose. Then, she puts her head in her hands and cries.

* * *

“My grandmother wants you and Vlad to have the reward. She would have given it to you personally, except… Um. She was afraid you would be gone before she could ask for you.” Anastasia hands Dmitry the envelope, her eyes glued to his shoes. Unpolished and battered, unlike the dress shoes he had worn earlier tonight. She had also made a detour and dug out her wool coat. It sits solid and comfortable on her shoulders, and she stands straighter under its steady weight.

“Anya.” He waits until she lifts her face, looking into his eyes. Dark brown. Dmitry pushes the money back into her hands, curls her fingers over it and presses firmly. His hands are large and warm around hers, his callouses brushing against her skin. “Tell her thanks, but we don’t need it.” His grip lingers, and his gaze is oddly heavy, oddly intent. “Is there anything else?”

Words surge up and lodge at the back of her throat.

When Anastasia doesn’t respond, he looks down, gives her hands a final squeeze and lets go. The midnight breeze is cool against her hands in the absence of his. “Guess this is goodbye, then.” The corner of his mouth quirks up even as he steps backwards from her. “It was nice knowing you, Anya.”

Then he turns and walks away, his silhouette fading into shadows cast by streetlamps. She mulls over the curl he put into her name, over what he said, and waits for the unknotting in her chest that will probably never come.

She breathes in.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Dmitry, wait!”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come scream at me on [tumblr](https://hotaruyy.tumblr.com/) about how fucking perfect the broadway soundtrack is lmao I go absolutely feral when I listen to it
> 
> Hope everyone is doing as well as they can during these times <3
> 
> P.S. Wear a mask when you go out!!


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